Every single morning
I wake up, get dressed, start my car,
And drive.

Every single morning
I pass the place where the house used to sit.
I remember when I was five years old;
when I still believed in fairy tales and princesses,
when I watched that house being consumed with flames.
I drive by and memories flash.
My mother gasping
The people crying
The dog barking.
A red house turned to ash and cemet before the trucks even arrived.
Every single morning I see the flames.

"No trespassing" says the sign.
No one has touched the place in 12 years.

This morning.
I saw the workmen.
Measuring and collecting data.
Unaware of the red house before.
Talking and pointing they make their plans.

Childhood memories suddenly covered
by wooden beams and work trucks.